


the last time you came through

by Manzanas



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manzanas/pseuds/Manzanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pete can’t remember the last time he created music that he actually liked, but with Patrick it’s easier than breathing. They fit together like the poetry Pete used to write about relationships that didn’t work half as well, and he and Patrick aren’t actually even together. (Though Pete wants. He wants, he wants, he wants.)"</p><p>At thirty-two, Pete feels like his life can't get any lower—a job he hates, flings that never call him back, and attempting to drink away his problem every night. Enter Patrick, the new tenant across the hall, who maybe knows a little about feeling like life's over before it's really begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last time you came through

**Author's Note:**

> omg, this was such a challenge to write. huge thanks to my beta [Sofia](http://hesitantalicn.tumblr.com/) for being absolutely perfect and catching my mistakes lol

Pete's late. Fucking shit, he's late _again_. It's the third time this week and Pete knows that's pretty shitty, even for him, because it's only Wednesday.  
  
He scrambles around his apartment, adamantly trying to avoid the mess and, _Jesus_ , is that rest of the pizza he ordered two weeks ago? Finally, _finally_ , he locates his keys, hidden under scraps of paper with half finished lyrics and he's out the door, locking the dead bolt behind him…  
  
And tripping on the mess of boxes overflowing from the door across the hall. He takes a moment to glare at the door in substitute for whoever-the-fuck decided to leave their shit all over the hallway, before refocusing on the chaos beneath him. 

The boxes are all nicely labeled with "kitchen" or "books,” and speak of a domesticity Pete hasn’t really felt since living with his parents. He scowls one last time at the mess, belatedly remembering what might be a rumor about someone finally getting the apartment across from his, and hurries towards the elevator, still late.

* * *

It’s not until Pete gets back to his apartment, too late and too drunk, that he remembers the mystery person who moved in across the hall (which, thankfully, is devoid of the boxes from earlier). He considers maybe introducing himself at a more appropriate time, when he’s less hammered and more recently showered, but he’s not sure it’s worth the effort.

Sighing as he unlocks his apartment, Pete stumbles a few feet before collapsing on the couch, not bothering with his shoes or jacket. He shoves a hand in his pocket, digging for his phone and barely managing not to chuck it across the room when he finally grabs at it.

Mikey isn’t returning his calls. Which, Mikey never returns his calls. But judging from the dial tone he gets two rings into his latest attempt, the other man is straight up _avoiding_ his calls.

Pete stares at the blank screen in front of him, willing anything—anyone really—to happen, and then he chucks the phone across the room. Fuck that. He kicks his shoes off and onto the floor because fuck those too. 

Shoving his head under some ugly ass throw pillow his mom bought him, Pete decides that passing out is preferable to whatever line of thought booze and Mikey will inevitably lead him down.

Right before sleep overcomes him, Pete considers maybe setting an alarm so he might actually show up to work on time tomorrow, but decides he doesn’t actually care.

* * *

Pete wakes up with a bad taste in his mouth and the profound thought that he’s been doing this far too often for the hangover to suck this much. His head’s pounding. His back hurts. He smells of booze and day old clothes. And, judging by the light streaming through his window, he’s late for work.

Sighing, Pete punches his pillow and considers just calling in sick. Of course, he’s barely able to pay his rent as is, much less if he doesn’t actually show up to work every once in a while.

Pete lets out another sigh as he sits up, alarmingly sore. He considers the lumpy couch beneath himself before deciding it’s better than last time when he just passed out against his door, unable to get his key to fit in the lock properly.

He pads his way into the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror and turning on the shower. Dejectedly, he watches the shower wheeze itself to life, somehow managing a greater water pressure than the leaky faucet he has in the kitchen.

Fishing through his pockets as he undresses, Pete pulls out three numbers messily written on the back of crumpled recites and a napkin with scrawled words he doesn’t remember writing.

_I wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel._

Pete snorts. Sounds like something he’d write. He crumples the napkin with the receipts and throws them in the waste bin.

Fifteen minutes (and a crappy breakfast bagel) later finds Pete rushing out the door…

And straight into the arms of an unsuspecting stranger who, guessing by the open door behind him, is Pete’s new neighbor. Pete’s arms wrap around the other man in an attempt to break both their falls, and, for a moment, they lock eyes and all Pete can think is _Wow, that’s a lot of blue._

“Um,” the stranger says.

“Um,” Pete replies because he is really articulate right now. And original. No wonder his life is such a success.

They stare at each other a moment longer, before Pete decides he should probably stop molesting the new tenant. He extracts himself carefully, taking a step back and tugging on his sleeve anxiously.

A step back and Pete can actually get a good look at the guy, and he’s cute in short, pale kind of way. There’s a black fedora sitting on his head, and while that’s never really been Pete’s thing, it’s definitely working for this dude. Unfortunately, he’s also looking hopefully at the ground, like maybe it will swallow him whole if he stares long enough. Which, okay, Pete can relate.

Pete’s beginning to wonder how long they can awkwardly stand around and avoid eye contact before he actually spontaneously combusts when he remembers he is, in fact, still late for work.

And because Pete is a smart person who thinks before speaking, he blurts, “I’m late for work.”

Mouth hanging open, Pete takes a moment to try and comprehend his own stupidity. Or at the very least, where the fuck the filter between his mouth and brain happened to go. However, thankfully, _thankfully,_ the other man appears just as dazed as him because his reply is, “Um, I moved in across the hall.”

“Yeah,” and for whatever reason, Pete is _still talking_ , “I noticed when I tripped all over your boxes yesterday.”

Pete wonders how much humiliation it’s possible to feel during one conversation. Somehow this is worse than the time his mom tried to talk to him about acceptance and being gay through only thinly veiled sandwich metaphors. _Sandwich metaphors_. And this is _worse_.

Somehow, though, rather than punching Pete in the face, the other man just takes pity on him, small smile present as he says, “I’m Patrick. Sorry about the boxes. I’m kinda a mess.”

He fidgets with his hat before offering a hand, and Pete takes it gratefully, “Pete, and it’s cool, really. Though I really am late for work.”

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, a teasing note entering his voice, “kinda like yesterday when you ran out and fell all over my boxes. Guess it was just me this time.”

Embarrassed, Pete ducks his head, thankful he doesn’t blush easily. He returns the smile though, and somehow manages not to feel like a third grader meeting their crush for the first time.

“Yeah, well.” Pete gestures at the hallway behind him, hoping to convey that he needs to get going, not _hey look, I know where the elevator is_. “I really should head to work. I’ll see you around though?”

Pete pretends his voice doesn’t sound hopeful, even to his own ears. Patrick’s answering smile is enough that he doesn’t really care, anyway.

* * *

Pete doesn't go to the bar after work that night. He tells himself it's because he's sick of waking up on his lumpy couch when he does, in fact, own an actual bed. But really, he knows he's a lot more likely to run into Patrick again if he's not fumbling his way into his apartment at two in the morning or tumbling into someone else's bed across town.

Of course, just because it's more likely doesn't mean it will actually happen. That doesn't stop Pete from dejectedly staring at the closed door across from his, hall glaringly empty of anyone save Pete himself.  
  
He resists the urge to knock on the door, make some sort of scene, _anything_ , because Pete might be desperate, but even he knows that's just sad. Not to mention pretty fucking creepy.  
  
He casts one more forlorn glance at Patrick's door before turning to his own, letting himself in and tossing his keys on the table by the door.  
  
All that excitement (and inevitable disappointment) about seeing Patrick has left Pete with a lot of nervous energy, and one glance around his cramped apartment lets him know that he can't just stay here, can't just sit around watching TV or scribbling half thought metaphors like he usually does when he gets home early.  
  
Still, now that he is home, he actually doesn’t want to go out drinking. He considers the old pizza box poking out from under the couch, and the piles of dirty clothes thrown haphazardly around the room, and then heads into the kitchen. Under the sink he finds an unopened box of garbage bags; he grabs the whole pack and sets to work.  
  
Over an hour later and Pete thinks his apartment hasn't been this clean since he moved in. Or maybe since he was dating Ashlee; she always liked a clean apartment.  
  
Shutting down that particular line of thought as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, Pete decides there's really only one thing he has left to do before his apartment could pass any FDA inspection, and he grimaces at the mountain of clothes he had been resolutely ignoring for the past hour.  
  
Sighing the sigh of all adults who no longer have a mom to just do their laundry for them, Pete trudges into him room and looks for a hamper.

***

As someone who doesn't actually own a washer or dryer, Pete has the lovely privilege of using the "laundry room" provided by his apartment complex.  
  
Pete considers the three failing washing machines and equally-as-old dryers in the moldy basement of his building an apt metaphor for exactly where he stands in life. When one of the washing machines breaks down and he has to hold his soggy, half-clean clothes while waiting for one of the others to finish, well, it's all the more fitting. Maybe he’ll write about it, something tragic about spin cycles and the futility of repeat relationships. (Maybe laundry metaphors are why he got kicked out of his last band).  
  
Halfway through the drying cycles, and two thirds of the way to killing himself, Pete hears a polite cough from the doorway behind where he’s sitting. He turns around and has the reign in his smile when he sees that it's Patrick.  
  
A sly grin creeps in when he sees the basket the other man's holding, and it shouldn't be this easy, it's never this easy for Pete, but the words are slipping out without thought, lightly teasing, "What? Two days here and you've already exhausted your wardrobe?"  
  
Patrick blushes, smile tugging at his lips and hand tugging at his hat, and then replies, "I was in a rush, moving out of my old place, and I didn't get a chance to do a load before I left." He gestures at the washing machines. "You using these?"  
  
Pete waves a hand, dismissive. "All yours."  
  
Pete watches as Patrick unloads his bucket into the washing machine (adamantly avoiding the mold growing on and around the machine, which yeah, pretty gross), and wonders what kind of life he lived before two days ago. Pete wonders if he moved across the city or the country. If he left friends and family behind or if he was looking to start new. If he could ever come to call a place with shitty heating and even shittier neighbors home.  
  
Pete bites his cheek, tugs on his hoodie, anything to distract his thoughts. Never one without a pen, he pulls a cheap ball point from his pocket and starts scribbling words on the back of his hand, hoping, always hoping, that maybe if he gets the words out they'll stop coming.  
  
_I'm just the boy who's had too many chances._

_I'd promise you anything for another shot of life._

_I’m just dreaming of tearing you apart._  
  
"What're you doing?"  
  
And Pete freezes, because in his desperate attempt to rid himself of all his words, he had completely forgotten about Patrick. He looks up slowly, not wanting to see the other man's reaction, that guarded look people get around Pete because they all know he's crazy.  
  
However, when he locks eyes with Patrick, all he sees is curiosity.  
  
"I, um, write lyrics. They're not very good, or uh, useful for anything. But I'd rather have them on paper, or y'know, my hand I guess, than in my head," Pete explains, awkwardly trying to clarify without saying _they'll kill me if I keep them in_ or _I can't breathe because I'm choking on my own words_.  
  
But maybe Patrick understands, or at the very least recognizes Pete's discomfort, because he says, "Yeah, I get like that with music. Sometimes I think of a melody or a riff, and it's this itch under my skin. I feel like I'll explode if I don't get it out."  
  
Pete instantly perks up, staring at this five-foot wonder in front of him, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. "You write music?"  
  
The other man fiddles with his hat, clearly a nervous gesture, before meeting Pete's eyes again. "Yeah, I mean, it's not really serious. Just, like as a hobby."  
  
However, Pete's already up and across the room, gesturing excitedly. It's been so long since he's talked music with someone who didn't know him as Pete, that guy who fucked up in that in band that one time or Pete, that guy who writes shitty lyrics and plays even shittier bass.  
  
"We should totally play together," Pete announces, only noticing Patrick's wide eyes and shocked expression once the words are already out. He quickly backpedals, because maybe asking a guy you met twelve hours ago to jam with you is actually kind of creepy, and says, "I mean, only if you want to. Um, you don't have to, actually. That was probably really weird of--"  
  
"No, wait. I want to," Patrick cuts him off, his voice confident even if his eyes are on the floor, "I'm free Friday night if you want to, um, hang then. Bring your lyrics and maybe we'll, y'know, write together. Or something."  
  
He looks up after he's finished speaking, lips quirked and eyes bright.  
  
Pete's answering smile is blinding, and the quick hug he gives Patrick without thought is met with nothing but a soft chuckle and red cheeks.  
  
Hours later, after his clothes are folded and put away, Pete sets his alarm before going to sleep so he's not late for work the next day.

* * *

Thursday after work finds Pete scrambling around his apartment, scrounging up lyrics written on the back of discarded envelopes and pages torn out of books. They’re shoved in his nightstand drawer or behind his bed, anywhere he can keep them where he doesn’t have to be reminded of them.

He pulls out lyrics he hasn’t touched in years, thoughts he never wanted to revisit. But really, he needs anything he can find that doesn't completely suck to show Patrick tomorrow. He debates with himself for a moment, standing in the middle of his room, before going to the bathroom and pulling the napkin from earlier that week out of the bin. He smoothes it on the counter, eyes carefully avoiding the words, before adding it to the growing pile on his bed.

* * *

Friday night Pete knocks on Patrick's door with his right hand, messy stack of lyrics clutched in his left. He had briefly considered writing them all down in a notebook, or at least on actual paper, but decided if he read through the words again, he'd probably just throw them all away.  
  
Patrick opens the door smiling, before raising his eyebrows at the collection of torn paper and stains in Pete's hand. Pete clutches tighter, and if Patrick notices, he doesn’t say anything.  
  
Pete rubs the back of his neck nervously while saying, "I, uh, brought my lyrics."  
  
Patrick's eyes flicker back up to meet his and maybe Pete’s a little too relived when the focus is off the lyrics. Still, Patrick smiles, no hint of anything but friendliness and says, “I noticed. Come in.”

Patrick steps aside to allow him past, and maybe Pete’s a little surprised with what he finds. Pete’s not sure what he expected, but besides having the exact same layout as his place across the hall, Patrick's apartment couldn't look any more different from Pete's.  
  
If Pete thought his apartment was clean, then Patrick's is a fucking Clorox commercial. His furniture doesn’t have the same stains and _holy shit_ , how he managed to get hardwood floors in a shithole building like theirs, Pete will never know.  
  
Still, the place looks surprising lived in for having a resident for less than a week. Shoes kicked off by the door. A stack of mail on the coffee table. And Pete’s pretty sure he can see a Prince poster hanging over the unmade bed through the open door of what most likely is Patrick's bedroom. It’s just really… nice. Homey.  
  
He tells Patrick as much and gets a shy smile in return. "Yeah, I think I like it."  
  
Patrick leads him over to the couch, where his acoustic is already waiting. Pete sits at the opposite end from Patrick, and pretends he doesn’t notice the expectant looks the other man keeps shooting the contents of his left hand.

Pete fidgets nervously for a moment, shifting his weight back and forth before finally turning back to Patrick, “Just don’t… hate them too much when they suck, okay?”

Bemused, Patrick replies, “They’re not gonna suck.”

Pete snorts, before handing Patrick what basically equates to the emotional summation of the last several years of his life. It’s a lot easier than it should be, and Pete’s comfortable enough with self-denial not to really look at that too hard.

Pete goes back to fidgeting while Patrick sorts through the pile, twisting paper around and piling different lyrics together. He’s sporting an intense look of concentration that means he either doesn’t know how to fix lyrics that suck as much as Pete’s do or that maybe he actually has something to work with.

Patrick picks up his guitar, messing around with the cords and mumbling words too low for Pete to catch. Every once and a while he’ll make a noise like maybe something’s actually going right and Pete steadily works his way from nervous to excited while watching the other man work.

Despite what he said about composing only being a hobby, Patrick clearly knows what he’s doing.

A few minutes later and he looks up at Pete, less concentration and more nerves. “Just… I’m gonna try something, okay? And you can tell me if you hate it or not.”

Pete thinks that Patrick could set his lyrics to the tune of _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ and he wouldn’t hate it, but decides that nodding would probably be the more appropriate response.

Patrick takes in a measured breath, and sends Pete a quick smile, and then opens his mouth and _sings_.

“ _Are we growing up or just going down? It’s just a matter of time before we’re all found out...”_

Patrick closes his eyes as he sings, and that’s good, that’s really good, because Pete thinks they’d both be uncomfortable if he could see the mix of awe and _wow, I think I’m in love_ that’s all over Pete’s face. 

The feeling just amplifies as Patrick continues. Because _finally_ there was someone who could make his lyrics work, make them more than just depressing metaphors and raw emotion, but it’s just as much Patrick’s voice. _God, his fucking voice._ Pete never wants anyone else to sing his words again.

When Patrick finishes the song, drawing out the last cord, Pete resists the urge to say _again again forever please._

“I, uh,” Patrick fidgets for a moment, eyes shifting but never quite landing on Pete.

Pete, who is still just staring.

Pete, who should probably say something.

“You’re perfect.”

Pete, who never thinks before opening up his goddamn mouth.

But Patrick’s only answer is a soft smile and the reddening of his cheeks, so maybe it’s not so bad.

They make it through two more songs—with Pete still unable to comprehend how someone like Patrick even exists, let alone as someone who wants to actually be around Pete— before deciding to order pizza. Pete finds out that Patrick is a vegetarian, which is fine by him because Pete was never all that into pepperoni anyway.

Pete’s working on his third slice of pizza when he notices it, semi hidden behind a closet door, looking halfway between a space heater and something too expensive for Pete to be around without fear of somehow breaking it.

And because Pete has a lot of tact—really, it’s one of his best traits—he blurts, “What is that?”

“Hm?” Patrick replies distractedly, glancing up from his pizza to where Pete is staring. There’s a moment where Pete swears he tenses all over, before relaxing again and saying nonchalantly, “Oh, it’s an air purifier. Gets rid of mold and bacteria in the air and whatnot.”

“Oh, hypochondriac, much?” Pete teases, giving Patrick a sight smirk.

“Maybe just a bit.”

Patrick rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but there’s a tightness in his features that makes Pete think there’s more going on than the other man’s willing to talk about. Pete can sympathize, and drops the subject.

* * *

 Saturday night and Pete gets a call from Mikey asking if he wants to _hang out_ , his tone of voice making the implications unmistakable. He glances at Patrick, who’s getting water or snacks or something from the kitchen, before saying he’s busy and hanging up.

* * *

 Andy’s sitting across from him, face pensive. It makes Pete nervous, if only because Pete usually doesn’t like the types of revelations Andy tends to share with him; they generally start with the evils of institutions and end with why Pete’s still so much of a loser at thirty-two. Basically, they involve a level of honestly and self-examination that Pete is never going to comfortable with.

Still, there’s five more minutes of Andy’s thinking face and Pete awkwardly twitching before Andy declares, “You’ve met someone.”

Pete snorts. “I meet people all the time. And we have great conversations, so great, in fact—”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Andy cuts him off, straight through Pete’s bullshit, like he always does. “Someone like Ashlee,” Andy hesitates, “or Mikey.”

“Mikey never answers my calls,” Pete scoffs, though it hurts less to admit this week than it did last.

“You don’t want him to,” Andy counters, and there’s too much truth in that for Pete to reply. They sit in silence for a few tense moments before Andy asks, “So is he nice?”

And Pete smiles for a moment, small, genuine, before answering. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

* * *

 The next few weeks find Pete and Patrick falling into a pattern of spending the weekends together, one night usually dedicated to music and the other spent just hangout and lazing around Patrick’s apartment. For whatever reason, Patrick always wants to stay in, and Pete enjoys the company so much he’s not inclined to push the issue. Honestly, he’ll take Patrick whichever way he’s willing to have Pete.

Eventually, Pete starts bringing around his bass and he and Patrick start working on making songs into more than just the melodies that Patrick can create on his acoustic. Pete can’t remember the last time he created music that he actually liked, but with Patrick it’s easier than breathing. They fit together like the poetry Pete used to write about relationships that didn’t work half as well, and he and Patrick aren’t actually even together. (Though Pete wants. He wants, he wants, he wants.)

But it’s not just writing, something about Pete just _clicks_ with Patrick, and he feels like he’s know him forever rather than just a couple of months.

Sometimes they’ll stay up together for hours just talking, and Pete shares parts of himself that he never thought he’d say out loud, never thought he’d admit other than during the late hours of night when he’s home alone and too drunk for self-preservation. He tells Patrick about growing up and burning out. About Jeanae. About Ashlee. About Mikey.

 He fills the spaces between them with so many words that his head feels empty afterwards. He always sleeps best on nights after talking with Patrick. Despite having an apartment right across the hall, Pete spends most weekends just crashing at Patrick’s anyways. Somehow, he’s come to prefer Patrick’s couch to his own bed.

But it’s more than any of that, really. It’s not something Pete could ever explain, but when he talks to Patrick, _Patrick listens_ , rather than just waiting for his turn, or just wanting to hear Pete’s latest fuck up. There aren’t a lot of people willing to put up with Pete’s bullshit just for the sake of Pete. 

In fact, things are going so unimaginably well that Pete is knocked flat on his ass when he and Patrick have their first fight.

It starts off small, like all Pete’s major fuck-ups do. He just doesn’t understand why he and Patrick can’t go out and have fun. They’re still not together, not really, but Pete wants to show Patrick off anyway. Wants to tell everyone who’ll listen _See this perfect person? This perfect little genius? See him? Well, he’s mine._ And it’s kind of possessive and creepy as hell, but that’s a sacrifice Pete is willing to make so everyone knows how great Patrick is.

So Pete is just sitting on Patrick’s couch whining about wanting to go out, wanting to go do something, when Patrick snaps, “Well then why don’t you just fucking leave already, Pete?”

Pete's back pedaling immediately, before deciding _fuck it_ because things were bound to blow up eventually. "Why don't you just fucking come with me for once? What do you get out of this? Just fucking locking yourself up all the time?"

Patrick's on his feet in an instant, red faced and shaking. Pete’s eyes widen, and Patrick’s actually kind of terrifying for a guy who once gave Pete a thirty minute lecture on appreciating the different subtleties of each Bowie era.

"You think I want this, you asshole? You think I'd fucking choose _this_?" Patrick’s voice _cracks_ , and he’s not just angry; he’s upset, his eyes are shining, but he’s also not backing down.

Apprehension crawls up Pete's spine and maybe they should calm down, maybe they should sit down and just _talk_ because there’s something more here, more than Patrick just being a shut in or Pete just being an asshole. But he's on his feet without thinking, words tumbling out his mouth with just as little thought, "Then what, Patrick? What the fuck is going on here? Because you just look fucking crazy to me!"

Pete winces at his own words because that was a pretty fucking low blow, but chances are it hurt him more than it did Patrick. Pete’s never known how to hurt someone without just hurting himself worse. That doesn’t prepare him for what Patrick says next.

" _I'm fucking dying, you asshole._ " Instantly, Patrick’s mouth snaps shut, and he steps back as if struck; whatever he meant to say, it wasn’t that.

And Pete.

Pete just stands there, unable to move. Unable to even open his mouth because _what the fuck_. _What the actual fuck, Patrick. What the fuck._

Apparently, though, he is able to open his fucking mouth, because the look on Patrick’s face is enough to know Pete just said all of that out loud. Oh well. Because seriously, _what the fuck_.

“I,” Patrick starts, hesitating, fiddling with his hat, like he has any right to be nervous right now. All the fight’s gone from him, and his eyes are pleading with Pete.“Just… listen okay?”

Pete actually manages to nod. Maybe he’s not broken, which is weird considering how his insides feel like they’re fucking ripping apart, tearing new holes in him that leave him bursting at the seams. Pete’s about to fall apart and Patrick wants him to _listen_.

“I, um, was born Severe Combined Immunodeficiency Disorder. It, uh, kinda makes my immune system suck?” Patrick hesitates again, then swallows and continues on. “I can’t really spend a lot of time outside, or like, going places with a lot of people, I guess. I’ll get sick, and my body can’t really fight it. It’s-I just,” Patrick laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Basically, I can get the flu or something and it’ll fucking kill me.”

Patrick's waiting for a response; Pete can see it in his eyes. He’s waiting for Pete to sit back down or come over and hug him like Pete’s always doing. Something to let Patrick know it’s okay, that _they’re_ okay. But Pete's a coward, such a fucking coward, because he turns around and walks out the door instead.

* * *

 Pete spends the next few days thinking. Thinking, and ignoring the ringing of his phone or the knocking at his door. 

And the whole thing’s awful, so fucking terrible, but it’s so much worse because of how much sense it makes once Pete starts thinking. 

He just... He thought Patrick was a neat freak, maybe a bit of a germaphobe, with the way he keeps his house clean and the air filter and three types of disinfectant soap he has in his bathroom. Turns out he’s just dying. It’s so horrible Pete laughs until he’s crying.

Two days after walking out of Patrick’s apartment, Pete’s spends the night getting as drunk as possible and pointedly _not_ feeling guilty about ignoring Patrick. There’s a number of voicemails on his phone that he doesn’t dare check, because Pete knows that if he listens to them, he’ll be right back at Patrick’s, apologizing and begging for forgiveness.

And right now, Pete’s too angry about Patrick dying to want anything other than to punch him in the face. Too devastated to want anything other than lie down and never get up again.

At some point in the night, he works up the courage to look up the condition, spelling it wrong three times before he finally finds what he’s looking for. Pete spends five minutes reading the Wikipedia page before he has to run to the bathroom to puke up his dinner. He doesn’t search it up again.

* * *

 Pete’s been with Andy for less than a minute when he asks, “You and Patrick get into a fight?”

“No,” Pete answers, glaring at Andy and daring him to object.

“Was it your fault?”

Fucking figures Andy wouldn’t give a shit about Pete and his need for denial.

“Maybe,” Pete sighs.

“Fix it,” is all Andy says.

And that’s the end of that.

* * *

The week trudges on and eventually it’s Thursday. When Pete leaves for work, he stares forlornly at Patrick’s door, but turns to the elevator without even considering knocking. He knows he’s miserable, and he’s knows how to fix it, but the thought that one day Patrick won’t be there to fix things with is enough to make him stay away.

He’s on autopilot at work, not letting himself think about anything because then he’ll think about _everything_ and have a break down in the middle of the copy room. Afterwards, he stops by a liquor store on the way home for a bottle of Jack Daniels. He drinks three quarters of it before passing out, at least managing to make it to his bed this time. Really, it’s a hollow victory.

* * *

 He wakes up at three in morning, somewhere between drunk and hungover and realizes what a massive idiot he’s being. Pete scrambles out of bed and the sheets that have somehow twisted around him, pulling on a pair of sweats while foregoing a shirt, before he’s out of his apartment and banging on Patrick’s door, loud and without rhythm (the soundtrack to his heart). 

It swings open, and Patrick’s standing there, grumpy and rumpled, but his face quickly goes from shocked to angry to _really fucking pissed_ when he sees who’s bothering him so early in the morning and Pete knows he’s about to have the door slammed in his face.

“Patrick, wait!” He shoves his foot between the door and its frame, just in case Patrick isn’t inclined to listen.

“What,” It’s flat, void of any emotion and Pete would believe Patrick didn’t care except he can see how much he’s hurt just by looking at his eyes, the way they won't meet Pete's; they’re Patrick’s biggest tell.

“I…”

Pete doesn’t actually know what to say, so he does the next best thing and fists his hands into Patrick’s shirt, _tugging_ , and hauls him up to press their lips together.

For a single agonizing second, Patrick’s completely still, not even pushing Pete away, before he melts against Pete, tongue gliding effortlessly against the seam of Pete’s lips.

Pete experiences a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness because he’s kissing Patrick, _holy shit_ , he’s kissing Patrick. And it’s the best thing he’s ever felt because there’s lightning in his veins and Patrick’s hands on his face and his tongue in Patrick’s mouth.

But then reality comes crashing down and _holy motherfucking shit_ , he’s kissing Patrick and probably going to kill him because of all the fucking diseases Pete’s just happily giving over to a guy who literally won’t even leave the house at the risk of people and their germs, why the fuck would he want Pete’s tongue in his mouth.

He leaps back, cursing, “Shit, shit, sorry. _Sorry_. I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve fucked up and I’m going to kill you because I’ve just kissed you and who knows what fucking diseases I have. Holy shit, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. _Shit_.”

And Patrick, the fucking asshole, just starts laughing. Pete’s doesn’t think it’s particularly funny, but Patrick’s eyes are shining. They’re the same shade of blue as when they first ran into each other in the hallway months ago, and for whatever reason that’s enough to calm him, _to make everything alright_ , and Pete shoves Patrick back into his apartment before sealing their mouths together again.

After that, Patrick’s mouth is a little too preoccupied to be laughing at Pete.

* * *

Things don’t change all that much once he and Patrick get together. Pete’s kind of been in love with Patrick since they met, and somehow, amazingly, Patrick’s basically in the same boat.

Still, Pete’s not sure what to think once he realizes he’s basically moved into Patrick’s place. They’ve never really spent a lot of time at Pete’s apartment. Not only is Patrick’s cleaner, but he usually has actual food in the fridge and his couch is bigger for when they feel like fucking around, but are too lazy to make it to the bed.

But hanging out at Patrick’s a lot and Pete waking up one morning and not remembering the last time he slept in his own bed are two very different things. Pete thinks about it as he strokes Patrick’s hair. Honestly, his bed is both bigger and more comfortable, but he’s never once missed it. Not in the way he’d miss waking up with Patrick’s arms around him, their legs tangled together, his cold feet pushed against Pete’s calves.

Everything about Patrick is different. How they met. How they talk. Pete’s never been friends with someone before they were lovers, and maybe that’s part of what makes them work.

And with Patrick, Pete can’t take him to all the sleazy places he usually takes (or meets) his dates. Really, he can’t take Patrick much of anywhere, or he’ll get a fucking cold and die. Which, _Jesus_.

He’s doing his best around Patrick to like, not be an asshole about it or anything. He doesn’t want to smother Patrick, but isn’t willing to feign indifference either. Pete stares at his hand, carding through Patrick’s hair, and wonders where the line between _please never leave please be okay_ and _I’m worried about you and your condition_ lies.

He’s lost in thought, hand itching for a pen, when his alarm starts blaring, obnoxiously loud and out of reach. Not wanting to wake Patrick, he rolls over and shuts it off quickly. The grumpy noises Pete hears behind him tell him exactly how successful he was.

Rolling back towards Patrick, he drapes himself over the other man, smiling brightly, unable (and unwilling) to stop himself.

“Ugh, Pete,” Patrick whines, but he’s trying to hide a smile, eyes playful, and Pete can’t help but to lean up and kiss him. It’s soft and light, and the best thing is, it doesn’t have to go anywhere. Pete can just kiss Patrick because he’s wants to, and even better, because Patrick wants to kiss back.

Pete’s still on top of Patrick, and the other man starts shoving at his shoulders, mouthing against Pete’s lips, “Oh my God, Pete. Get up. You’re gonna be late for work.”

Pete smirks, waggling his eyebrows at Patrick obnoxiously at he replies, “But last time I was late, I met you. Who knows what’ll happen this time.”

Patrick snorts. “You’ll get to help me clean the kitchen.”

Pete’s out of the bed and getting ready in record time, smiling to himself the whole time.

* * *

 Pete gets home from work feeling emotionally and mentally drained, tired in a way that he sometimes just can’t avoid.  It was a slow day at the office, which really fucked him up because all he had was free time for _what if_ scenarios. He knows Patrick can sense something’s off, but seems to be deciding how to handle it. Pete would rather they just not bring it up. It’s a lot easier to pretend there’s not a problem if they never actually talk about it.

Patrick suggests playing some music, and Pete agrees instantly. Hearing Patrick sing always calms him down. (The fact that Patrick knows this makes it even better.)

But despite his best effort, Pete can’t focus. He fucks up a simple bass-line twice. Patrick’s worried glances grow more and more frequent and that just makes it worse. He looks at the bass in his hand, and decides that if he doesn’t put it down, he’s going to throw it. Or smash it against coffee table; just break it past the point of repair. Because he’d rather destroy it himself than be unable to play. (And maybe he’s not really thinking about the bass anymore.)

Pete takes a deep breath and sets down the instrument, ignoring the shaking in his hands and the tension that’s building behind his eyes. He feels like a rubber band just about to snap, and he’s pissed off at himself for getting like this in the first place. At Patrick for being so goddamn understanding. And at everything else too, just because he fucking can be. He smiles at Patrick, wide and brittle, and hates himself because it figures he’d fuck this up too.   
  
However, when his eyes meet Patrick’s, they’re soft, sincere in a way Pete doesn’t deserve. His hand finds Pete's knee, gently rubbing circles, and some of the tension drains from Pete’s body. Patrick still hasn't said anything, but Pete understands anyway. _Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong._  
  
"You make me really fucking happy," Pete blurts, out of nowhere but not really.  
  
"Pete, I-"  
  
But Pete holds up a hand, cutting him off, before bringing it back down to rest atop Patrick's. He links them together without thought, but doesn't miss Patrick's little smile at the gesture.  
  
"Just... Just let me finish, please. I need to say this," Pete pleads, "You make me so happy, happier than I thought I could ever be. I kinda fell fast, and fell hard, y'know?  
  
"But Patrick, I'm so fucking scared. I'm scared you're gonna breath in the wrong air or I'm gonna kiss you and fuck you over or something and I'm sorry for being like this, but just, please. Please don't let anything happen. Please don't get sick. Please... Just don't leave. I can't-- I won't. Just. _Please_."

Pete has inched closer to Patrick with his words, and he's staring into Patrick's eyes, willing him to understand what Pete, for all his words and metaphors and shitty poetry, can't quite seem to articulate.  
  
But Patrick just gets it, like he always fucking does, taking Pete's useless words and making them mean something because all Patrick says is, "I love you, too," before leaning in and closing the remaining gap between them.  
  
Pete relaxes instantly because that's it, _that's exactly it_ and he laughs into the kiss, smiling against Patrick's mouth, saying, "I love you too, _too_."  
  
And then Patrick's laughing also and punching him in the arm and calling Pete an asshole, but he couldn't be happier. He's still scared, fucking terrified, but he wouldn't trade this for anything.

* * *

 One night, they’re lying on the floor of Patrick’s apartment, passing back and forth a bottle of cheap vodka, and since Pete’s done with amateur research, he just has Patrick answer his questions instead.

Was he sick a lot as a kid? (Yes.)

Is he afraid of dying? (Not anymore.)

Does he think he’ll live long enough to grow old? (Pete holds his breath.) (Patrick hesitates. It’s answer enough.)

He stares at the curve of the bottle in his hand, takes another swig, and decides he’s done with questions.

* * *

 When he’s not worrying himself about Patrick to the point of panic attacks, Pete fucking loves being domestic. He loves waking up wrapped around Patrick and then getting up and making breakfast together. He loves arguing about dumb shit like what shelf the cereal goes on. He loves kissing Patrick on the cheek right before leaving for work. It’s like cocaine or something worse, and he’s addicted.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying said domesticity, when Patrick drops the bombshell. Like the fucker he is, Patrick waits until Pete has a mouth full of cereal so he can’t interrupt. “I’m thinking about signing up for a volunteer problem at that church around the corner.”

“Um… what?”

“It’s just… they want someone to play music for the kids, maybe teach them how to play an instrument. I think I’d be good at it.”

“No, no. Of course you would, but,” Pete hesitates, wonders if he’s found the line and is about to cross it, before asking, “are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow, his mouth forming a thin line. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just… you’re not worried about getting sick or something? I mean, kids are kind of disgusting, y’know?”

“Pete,” Patrick sighs, “I want to do this. And, I know it has its risks… but, it’s only twice a month, and I’m tired of just being around here all day. I mean, I go to the store. I check up at work. It’ll just be like that.”

“But…” And maybe Pete should shut up, but he’s _worried_. He’s always worried. And, thinking about it, maybe a little hurt. “You wouldn’t let me take you on dates.”

“The types of places you’d take me are argument enough for why,” Patrick says flatly. He then hesitates, before adding, “But… I’m sick of living my life in a bubble. So, if you want, we’ll go on dates. We’ll do whatever you want, Pete. I want you to be okay with this, but more importantly, I want you to be happy.”

And it’s just like Patrick to be so well-thought and utterly considerate, but Patrick’s missing the point. A glaring oversight and Pete intends to correct it.

“Patrick, I want you to be safe. And going out, exposing yourself… I’d rather have you _healthy_ , than have you in some fancy restaurant or dive bar. Being with you makes me happy enough.”

Pete’s words don’t have the intended effect. Patrick’s expression goes completely blank, and then he says very carefully, “You’re going to be late for work.”

He then gets up and leaves the kitchen. Pete hears the soft click as Patrick shuts himself in the bedroom.

He looks down at his cereal and thinks _fuck_.

* * *

 Pete spends the entire day thinking about what Patrick’s said. Thinks about living a life where walking outside could mean walking towards death. He thinks about Patrick, all the fucking hats he owns, the way he laughs when Pete’s done something dumb but endearing, the way he smiles when they finally finish a song.

All of it, everything, leads to the same conclusion: he just wants Patrick to be happy, too.

On his way home, Pete’s all ready to apologize, ready let Patrick know how much he supports him and will do whatever it takes to let him know that Pete will be there for him however Patrick wants him to be. _Because Pete just wants Patrick to be happy_. It’s a dizzying thought, but it has him grinning like a maniac all the same.

Pete opens the door, prepared to give a speech, but the words die on his lips when he sees Patrick sitting on the couch, looking ready for a firing squad. Pete’s stomach drops because he knows that look. _He knows that fucking look._

“No, wait, Patrick,” Pete’s already begging because he can’t—they can’t. Pete can’t lose Patrick, but especially not like _this_.

He can’t lose Patrick because Patrick doesn’t want him anymore. Pete spent so much time worrying about Patrick’s health that he stopped considering that one day Patrick would actually realize how much Pete isn’t worth having around.

“Just listen, Pete,” Patrick sounds resigned, which is worse than angry because resigned means he’s thought about it. Resigned means there’s been a decision. Resigned means it’s permanent. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. With you. It’s just… we’re not gonna work out, and I think… I think we should end this—us.”

Patrick stumbles through his words, but they still hit Pete like a blow to the chest. He staggers closer to Patrick, looking in his eyes and finding nothing he wants to see.

“I—Patrick, please. Volunteer. Spend as much time out as you want, I’ll support you, I’ll go with you, but please, please don’t,” Pete can’t even say it out loud. He knows he’s shaking and he might be crying, but Patrick is made of fucking stone, removed from the conversation like Pete’s breakdown isn’t worth his energy or reaction. He’s been with Patrick for half a year, but Pete’s never seen him like this. He pleads, “I can’t lose you.”

Patrick stiffens, and that was the wrong thing to say but Pete doesn’t know _why_. Doesn’t know how one fight, _one disagreement_ , can break down everything they’ve been building for the past six months.

“Don’t you get it?” Patrick snaps, suddenly angry, suddenly unable to even look at Pete. “You’re suffocating me. You need me too much, and I can’t handle that. You’re _broken_ , Pete. And I can’t fix you.”

It’s like a cold shower after a night of too much drinking, and suddenly Pete is numb all over, unable to feel anything except the pounding of his heart, too fast and too loud. For a moment, he can’t breathe, doesn’t even want to. He stares at Patrick, who can’t even look him the eyes while dumping him, who’s rage is directed as much at the floor as it is Pete.

“I just wanted to protect you,” Pete somehow manages, can feel the words on his lips, the shape of them on his mouth, but they’re meaningless because Patrick doesn’t want them. And Pete doesn’t know what to do with words Patrick won’t take. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”

"I don’t need you to protect me, Pete. I'm not fucking _breakable_ ," Patrick seethes. Pete barely has time to register the words before a fist is colliding with his face.  
  
And Pete's always been just on the side of too violent. More than willing to throw the first punch, and never one to leave a fight unfinished. But there’s no anger in Pete now, no will to strike back, just the same numbness as before.

Pete’s backed up a few steps, staring at Patrick in what feels like shock and he’s looking for anything that means he can still fix this, even the smallest hint that Patrick wants him to. But Patrick’s trembling with his rage, looking like he wants nothing more than to punch Pete again, to get him to hit _back_ , but all Pete can do is choke out, “I’m sorry.”

Something melts in Patrick, and for a moment he looks just as heartbroken as Pete feels. But then it’s gone, replaced with the same blank face he wore at the table this morning. And Pete gets it. There’s nothing left to say.

Pete turns around and walks out the door.

He unlocks his apartment and puts his keys on the table.

He goes to the bathroom and gets a tissue for his nose.

He stares at his reflection until morning, and then he goes to work.

* * *

 This time, Patrick doesn't call. Doesn't knock on his door. Doesn't even give Pete his stuff back face-to-face. Rather, Pete finds all his shit outside his door in a box labeled "CDs," from when Patrick moved in almost a year ago, because apparently, Patrick's the type of guy who holds onto useless things for far longer than he should.

Pete takes the box, still full of all his stuff, and throws it away.

* * *

 Two weeks and Pete’s reverted back to basically the same loser he was before Patrick. For Pete, it seems, nothing ever really changes.

He’s going out and coming home late, getting into work even later, pushing away everything in an attempt to just feel nothing. It doesn’t work, but Pete’s nothing if not stubborn.

He finds lyrics scattered around his house from when he’s too drunk to avoid a pen, but throws them away without reading a single word. He’s still too horrified from the first time. ( _The person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger_.)

Pete feels like his heart’s been shattered all over the floor, and he’s constantly being forced to walk barefoot over the pieces. He’s not sure how many more times he come out his apartment and stare at Patrick’s door, right across from his, knowing he can never walk in again. It’s the worst kind of torture because Patrick’s _right there_ ; he just doesn’t want Pete there with him. 

One day he comes home, and doesn’t even make it to his door before he’s turning around, back towards the elevator. He can’t fucking do this anymore.

* * *

 Pete goes to Joe's because he refuses to face Andy. Can't bear to see that look Andy gets when Pete's too fucked up for people to want to stick around. Pete hasn’t actually seen Joe in a few months, but he’s the type of friend that’ll let Pete bum on his couch without complaint.

When Pete shows up, he knows Joe enough to see the questions he wants to ask at Pete’s unkempt appearance and the bags under his eyes, but thankfully he refrains from saying anything. Pete doubts it’ll last; Joe has even less consideration for social courtesy than him.

A few days later, Pete’s proven right when Joe plops down on the couch next to Pete, steals his chips, and asks, “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Pete replies, snatching his chips back and avoiding looking at Joe. The dude’s weirdly perceptive for someone whose weed intake probably should have killed the last of his brain cells years ago.

“Really,” Joe deadpans, “because Andy just called me saying that you’ve been avoiding him.”

 _Fuck_ , Pete winces. Andy is such a fucking a traitor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete tries.

“You’re doing your breakup sulk.”

"I don't have a breakup sulk," Pete sulks, scrunching his nose, annoyed with his complete inability to catch a fucking break.  
  
"Yeah, you do. This one must have sucked extra bad because you're trying even harder than usual to act like someone didn't knock you on your ass," Joe counters, and that's it, Pete's had enough.  
  
"Why don't you just mind your own fucking business, Trohman," Pete snarls, sounding vicious and overreacting but not caring at all.  
  
Joe's eyes widen and he throws his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't realize..."  
  
"Yeah, well maybe you should shut your fucking mouth then, huh?"  
  
Pete's angry, so fucking pissed, and that's just one step from devastated, which is exactly where Pete will be if they keep talking about this.  
  
"I..." And Joe's walking on eggshells, somewhere between considerate and demanding when he says, "Andy told me about Patrick. You can’t just lock your feelings up and expect them to go away. You know what happened last time you tried that.”  
   
"Yeah? Fucking watch me," Pete snaps.  
  
"Just... talk, Pete. About anything. What he’s like. His hobbies. You don’t have to talk about the breakup,” Joe offers.  
  
Pete hates how tempting it is. He feels raw; his emotions wrung out and left to dry, but Pete still thinks Patrick's pretty much perfect. It's not Patrick's fault he figured out he was too good for Pete and all his bullshit.  
  
"Patrick," Pete starts, and _fuck_ , his voice is already breaking, "he, uh, always has a fucking hat on his head. He's kinda obsessed with cereal. Like, not even good cereal. Fucking cornflakes and shit. Pretty dorky when it comes to Bowie or Prince, honestly. Doesn’t know how to do a load of dishes properly. And, oh my God, he’s steals all the covers. Literally, every night."

"Sounds like a real catch," Joe says dryly.  
  
Pete shoots him a glare before continuing, "He's basically a music genius. He’s plays instruments I can’t even pronounce. And shit, the first time I heard him sing..."  
  
Joe's face has gone from politely interested to confused to disbelieving in the span of three seconds.  
  
"Holy shit. Patrick Stump. You're fucking dating Patrick Stump."  
  
" _Was_ fucking dating Patrick Stump," Pete corrects, before realizing, "Wait. How the fuck do you know Patrick?"  
  
"We used to jam together. Dude was fucking crazy," Joe says, and then looks genuinely upset, "he's sick."  
  
"No fucking kidding," Pete says, "he's been sick his whole life."  
  
"No," Joe disagrees, "sick _sick_. He was telling me about a few weeks ago, just said it had something to do with his condition. He didn’t really want to talk about it.”

The world flips on its axis, and Pete has a bout of vertigo so strong he almost throws up all over Joe and his ugly couch. Still, he’s up in less than a second, gasping, “Holy shit. I need to talk to Patrick.”  
  
"Wait, wait, Pete," Joe stops him with a hand on his arm, and he gives Pete a surprisingly sincere look before saying, "Patrick... He mentioned he was seeing someone. Really, he would talk about you like you fucking hung the stars or some shit, man. Just, whatever's going on with him now, whatever he tells you, he needs you."  
  
"Yeah," Pete replies, "I need him too."

* * *

 Pete breaks every speed law in existence on the way home, and watches as the pieces slide into place with what Joe’s told him.

Patrick having a doctor’s appointment a couple days before their fight.

Patrick suddenly wanting to go out more, deciding he might as well finally live life if he’s going to die soon anyway. (The thought leaves Pete gasping for breath, but he speeds on anyway.)

Patrick breaking up with Pete because… well, possibly, because of exactly what he told Pete. But, considering the timing, he’s really hoping not.

* * *

 It’s déjà vu as Pete knocks on Patrick’s door, shoving his foot in the door frame again because this time Patrick doesn’t even let Pete speak before he goes to slam it in his face.

“Patrick, we need to talk,” Pete says, and he’s not angry, but he’s demanding. He’s not about to take no for an answer. Even if Patrick doesn’t want to talk about _them_ , well, Pete’s concern for Patrick goes far beyond his own pathetic need for love.

And Patrick, for all his words about how he and Pete just don’t work, still gets it, saying, “Yeah… maybe we do.”

Pete looks into Patrick’s apartment, his chest seizing, before he suggests, “There’s that coffee shop down the block. Maybe we can talk there.”

Patrick looks a little hurt, but Pete’s not about to walk back into that apartment and be reminded of everything he shared with Patrick, only to be rejected a second time. Pete isn’t completely sure how this is going to end, and for once, he chooses self preservation.

“Okay,” Patrick agrees, “Just let me grab a jacket.”

Patrick walks off to find a coat and Pete sighs in relief, taking a moment to compose himself. Just seeing Patrick feels like breaking his heart all over again, like a breath of air before his head’s inevitability shoved back underwater, and Pete knows no matter where this conversation goes, chances are he’s losing Patrick anyway. He’s surprised he’s still even standing, let alone about to go have an actual adult conversation about their relationship. Maybe Pete’s changed more than he’d like to admit.

Patrick comes back with a hoodie that Pete almost immediately recognizes as his own, somehow not making it into the box of things he had given Pete back. He opens his mouth to say something before deciding to actually just shut up for once. Though, he still smiles when Patrick turns his back and can’t see it; Patrick’s always preferred gestures to words, and this time, he’s spoken loud and clear.

The walk to the coffeehouse is silent, with Pete’s hand occasionally brushing against Patrick’s, but he’s too much a coward to take it. Pete doesn’t know what he’d do if Patrick pulled away.

When they get inside, Pete scrunches his nose slightly, remembering that he doesn’t actually even like this place. Too many college students with dumb sounding drinks and pretentious attitudes because they don’t go to Starbucks. And really, the coffee isn’t even that good.

He decides it’s worth it though when Patrick lights up just at the sight the place, clearly just starved for _people_. Pete considers how Patrick would never have just spent hours at a coffee shop like this, working on a college paper or just wasting time, and swallows hard at all the experiences Patrick’s been forced to miss out on.

Once they get their drinks, Patrick leads him to a small table in the back, away from the eyes and ears of everyone else. Pete slumps his shoulders in relief. It’s not particularly busy this time of day, but Pete still wants as few witnesses as possible for when he inevitably breaks down into tears. 

They stare at each other for a few moments, awkwardly but not really because Pete just wants to memorize Patrick’s face, take in all his features for when he inevitably won’t have them anymore.

Finally, Patrick starts, “I’ve missed you. A lot,” he glances at Pete, fiddles with his drink and continues, “I didn’t realize how much I would before… before breaking up with you. I thought I was used to being alone.”

Pete flinches (because _yeah_ , he missed Patrick too), but does his best to cover it. He’s never been a particularly good actor, though, because Patrick reaches across the table to take his hand. Pete isn’t sure how he feels about the way the gesture immediately causes him to relax.

Pete takes in a breath, before replying, “I was in a lot of bands before I met you.”

Patrick’s eyebrows draw together at the non-sequitur, but Pete just shakes his head when he opens his mouth.

He continues, “Most of my bandmates didn’t like me. I was kinda an asshole, and sorta expected to be the center of attention, even though I was probably the least talented person there. So, uh, I got kicked out of a lot of them,” Pete chuckles, “and I’ve told you about all my failed relationships. How I was more in love with idea of whoever I was dating than the person themself. How I never seemed to be good enough to keep people around.

“I thought the attention, or the music, or whoever I was seeing that week… I thought they could make me happy. I thought they could fix me,” Pete stops, giving Patrick a meaningful look, “but all I’ve ever wanted from you is _you_. All I want is for you to be happy, and if that means… if that means fucking on out of your life because you don’t want me anymore, I’ll do it. It’ll fucking end me, but I’ll do it.

“But Patrick,” Pete grips his hand tighter, probably too hard, but Pete’s on the edge of his entire world, “if that’s not what you want, then I don’t care what’s going on. Don’t push me away.”

Patrick looks on the verge of tears, but all he says is, “I’m sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m _dying_.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’d rather have me _healthy_.”

Pete winces because that was never what he meant.

“I’d rather just have you.”

“Then…” Patrick hesitates, “I’d rather have you too.”

There’s nothing intimate about a coffee shop, but as Pete stares at Patrick across from him, he swears they’re the only ones in the world.

They make it out the door and around the corner before Patrick pushes him into a wall, body flush against Pete’s. He kisses Pete rough and desperate, murmuring, “I love you, I love you so much,” between each press of lips, and Pete will never have the words to explain how much this feels like coming home.

But something about it feels finite, too, and Pete knows he won’t have this for much longer. It makes him just as desperate.

* * *

 Pete pushes Patrick down onto the couch, crawling up over him until he can trail kisses up the other man’s neck, reveling in the gasps and small noises Patrick makes as Pete bites down, soft but insistent.

“No, wait, Pete,” Patrick stops him, placing his hands on Pete’s face, kissing him softly and then pulling back. “You know we’re not done talking.” 

Pete hunches his shoulders and averts his eyes because he really wanted to skip this part of the conversation. However painful the last half hour was, this is going to be much worse.

Pete edges off Patrick, but settles right next to him as they sit up. He takes both of Patrick’s hands in his own, pretending that he’s trying to comfort the other man rather than himself. “Alright, talk to me.”

“A couple of years ago, I was part of a gene therapy trial. It’s pretty complicated stuff, but basically they were using gene transplants from bone marrow to try and give people with immunodeficiency a working immune system. It was all pretty cutting edge, people were talking about curing it,” Patrick pauses, “and then some girl from the program developed leukemia. And then after that, some guy,” Patrick chuckles bitterly, “the trials were cut pretty soon after that.”

Pete’s stomach has dropped to the floor, but he squeezes Patrick’s hand, urging him to continue. He tries his best for a reassuring smile, but it undoubtedly comes off as a grimace.

“I was just getting a checkup for the SCID, making sure it wasn’t getting worse or anything,” Patrick’s talking fast and low now, hands clammy and expression unreadable, “and they noticed I had a high white blood cell count, which was especially weird since I basically don’t have any. They ran a few other tests, but it was pretty much a given after that.”

“Patrick…” Pete trails off, his apprehension and fear blanking his mind in the face of something _so much worse_ than he could ever have imagined himself. _Cancer_. People on TV get cancer. Distant relatives you only ever saw at Christmas get cancer. People you know, _someone you see every day_ , they don’t get cancer.

Pete stares at Patrick, who doesn’t look sick, doesn’t even look _tired_ , and thinks, unless, of course, when they do.

“Pete,” Patrick breaks him out of his stupor, “this is gonna suck. A lot. The leukemia, even if I try and treat it… I’m falling apart. You didn’t sign up for that, not really,” Patrick says, sincere as he tries, yet again, to give Pete an out he doesn’t even want, “that’s why I broke up with you. You shouldn’t have to go through this. And I knew you’d stay, even if it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Patrick,” Pete looks into too blue eyes and thinks _cancer, cancer, cancer_. It’s terrifying, but he’s never been more serious as he responds, “I already told you. I just want you.”

* * *

 The next day instead of going to work, Pete visits his mom. He can’t remember the last time they even spoke, and he knows it had to have been an argument, but he goes anyway.

When she answers the door, her expression flickers between a number of emotions—shocked, relieved, happy—before finally settling on concerned. “Pete, honey.”

“Mom,” And Pete’s voice is already wavering, and it’s seeing his mom for the first time in almost a year, but it’s also what he has to say.

She immediately steps forward to hug him, and Pete returns the gesture without hesitation.

And Pete loves his mom, loves her so much because she’s probably pissed as hell about their last fight or that he didn’t call at Christmas, and yet the next words out of her mouth are, “Come in, and tell me what’s wrong.”

She sits Pete down on the couch, the same one his mom’s had for the last twenty years, and brings him a glass of water. Sitting down next to him, she just stares at him expectantly until he spills everything, the same method she’d use when he was fifteen and sneaking out every night to burn shit and get wasted. Over fifteen years later, and he lasts two minutes before he cracks.

“I met someone,” Pete gives her a watery smile, before continuing, “I met someone, mom. And he’s so amazing. Just… God, I love him so much.”

She smiles back, bemused, before giving him her typical mom enthusiasm, “That’s wonderful, Pete. When do I get to meet him?”

“I…uh, soon. I was gonna ask him about it later this week depending on, uh, whether you let me in the door or not,” Pete admits, chucking anxiously and rubbing the back of his neck, “but mom… he’s, well—I mean, Patrick’s sick,” Pete’s voice cracks, “It’s uh, it’s pretty bad, Mom.” 

His mom puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, but remains silent, and he’s eternally grateful because right now Pete doesn’t need condolences, he just needs to _talk_.

He backpedals to the very beginning, to tripping over those damn boxes and crashing into Patrick in the hallway. Pete knows he sounds like a love-struck idiot, but that’s completely the truth so he doesn’t even care. 

He’s choked up again by the time he reaches their first fight, barely able to speak but needing to get the words out. Pete will never be able to describe just how much Patrick’s changed his life, how much Patrick’s saved him without even trying, but for now, just getting through the story is enough of a victory for him.

“And last night,” Pete continues, “I went to go talk to him, try and fix things, y’know. I couldn’t have him going through that alone if there was any chance I could be there for him,” Pete’s talking to the floor, concentrating on the hand rubbing circles into his back, rather than the words. “I—it worked. We talked everything out, like… like adults, or whatever.

“But, he was diagnosed with Leukemia, some delayed effect from a medical trial he was a part of _years ago,_ ” Pete pauses, “I don’t even know how that happens. How something that was supposed to _cure_ you can fuck you over even worse,” Pete’s a mess of tears, not even bothering to wipe them away at this point, “It’s just not _fair_. Patrick doesn’t deserve this, _any of this_. And when it comes to support, he’s just stuck with me.

“I don’t know how to be strong for him,” Pete confesses, drawing his legs up to rest his forehead against his knees. “I don’t know how to be what Patrick needs.”

“Pete,” his mom finally says, “it sounds like you’re exactly what he needs.”

Pete chokes a laugh in response, to which his mom gives a stern look.

Patiently, she tells him, “Pete, honey, this isn’t about _you_ ,” she drops her voice, more serious, “You can’t let yourself be immersed in your own emotional insecurities. He _chose_ you to be there for him, and whether or not you think you’re good enough, he does. So _be there for him_.”

Pete takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly because she’s right. His mom’s always right. Pete gives her a smile, still fragile, but at least it’s something.

“Now, come on,” she says, suddenly cheerful, “It’s about time I started dinner. You can help with the vegetables while we talk about when you’re bringing Patrick over.”

When Pete gets home later that night, only half an hour later than usual, he finds Patrick already in bed, fast asleep with the covers bunched up around him. He gives the lump of blankets a worried glance, before kicking off his shoes and crawling in next to Patrick.

If he maybe holds Patrick a little tighter than usual, pressing his face into the other man’s shoulder like maybe he could get stuck there, well, who could blame him?

* * *

 Patrick signs up for the volunteer program. On days he’s teaching, Pete’ll go with him, not bothering to bring along his bass. He can barely play himself, and he doesn’t exactly want his legacy to be the bad technique he’d end up passing onto a bunch of third graders.

Besides, he’d much rather just watch Patrick. Which, okay, kind of creepy, but the guy was fucking _made_ for this. Without even trying, he absolutely charms all the kids, and their parents, managing to be completely humble and the most talented musician anyone’s ever seen all in the same breath. They’re so impressed that they offer Patrick the previously nonexistent position of _children’s music leader_ , and soon he and Pete are up there at least once a week.

And despite the panic that seizes him whenever a kid so much as sneezes near Patrick, seeing how happy Patrick is, Pete can’t deny what a good idea this was.

One night, about twice as many kids show up compared to their usual, and Patrick gives him this panicked, pleading look until Pete takes pity on him and shepherds off half of them, taking one of the beat-up acoustics the church has on hand with him.

He sits them all on a play-matt at the opposite side of the room, trying to convince himself it’s ridiculous to be nervous about this when Pete was actually a performer once. That doesn’t stop him from looking at the group of children in front of him like he’s facing down his worst critics. Kids are brutally honest, and there’s no way they’re going to hold back when Pete inevitably sucks.

He plucks the guitar experimentally, doing the best he can to tune it by ear. It’s been a while since he played, his guitar even worse than his bass, and Pete’s not even sure where to start when some snot-nosed kid yells out, “Old McDonald, do Old McDonald!”

A chorus of agreements comes up from the play-matt and Pete relaxes his shoulders. That, at least, he can do.

Each song ends with a new suggestion and Pete is just happy to follow the kids’ leads, completely unable to match up the guy who used to scream in emo bands with the person he is now. Pete glances over his shoulder at Patrick, who’s strumming something just a bit too complicated for the kids to quite be able to follow, and considers that maybe it’s not as strange as he thinks.

A couple of songs later and the focus shifts from Pete’s mediocre guitar playing to the tattoos that run up and down his arms. He rolls up his sleeve before giving the parents standing off to the side an uneasy look, but somehow Patrick stumbled across the most progressive church in all of Chicago, because they just stare back in polite interest. One even motions for him to continue.

Pete gestures to the cartoon characters, explaining their names and why he got them. Kids are curious little fuckers, so Pete spends a chunk of time answering questions about the colors or if tattoos hurt or if he has to get them redone every time he showers (he has to stifle a laugh at the last question; the other kids aren’t so charitable, though).

He continues talking and answering questions until he feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up to find Patrick smiling down at him, jacket on and guitar already packed away.

“Hey, it’s 8:30. You feel like letting these kids go anytime soon?” Patrick teases, eyes bright in the way they always get after he’s done molding the minds of tomorrow.

“I don’t know,” Pete counters, “maybe I’m so interesting that none of them wanna leave. Isn’t that right, kids?”

Pete gets a bout of giggling and low agreements for his efforts, and he grins back at all of them, completely charmed.

Patrick laughs, then smiles brilliantly at him, and Pete can’t help the way he falls just a little bit more in love than he already was.

“Get your coat. I was thinking we could do Chinese tonight, that one place by the park,” Patrick suggests.

Pete hops up, eager for some Lo Mein, and goes across the room to find his jacket. He comes back just in time to hear some well-meaning church mom say to Patrick, “You’re both just so good with kids. Have you two considered adoption?”

He stands there, frozen, as Patrick has to explain to her that he’s not expecting to make it to his next birthday, let alone long enough to have kids.

By the time Patrick wanders over to where he’s standing, still frozen in shock, Pete’s mood has considerably dampened.

* * *

 The weeks blend into months and Pete tries not to notice the way Patrick goes to bed earlier and earlier, exhausted no matter how he spends his days. He’s gone from stealing the covers to pushing them off by morning, fevers that catch him in the middle of the night that are gone by the next day. Days will pass where Patrick will eat practically nothing, despite Pete’s best efforts to cook him anything and everything he might find even remotely appetizing. He feels like they’re fighting a losing battle, but Patrick’s nothing if not stubborn.

Pete feels like his life is breaking at the seams, falling apart just slow enough for him to watch and just fast enough that it fucking terrifies him. He looks at Patrick and feels like he’s fallen in love with a fading memory.

Three months after his diagnosis, Patrick comes home from the oncologist (despite Pete’s protests, he always insist on going alone), shoulders slumped and mouth quirked into something other than a smile.

Pete refrains from asking, knows Patrick won’t talk about it until he’s ready, and doesn’t question the way Patrick pins him to the mattress that night, desperate and energized in a way Pete hasn’t seen in weeks.

The next morning over breakfast, Patrick tells him. It’s getting worse, and without viable treatment options considering his condition, there’s not much they can do.

The doctors give Patrick three months.

* * *

 It’s like a switch goes off in Patrick’s body at the news, and Pete spends the next month living the mantra _good days and bad days_. Good days when Patrick has enough energy to get out of bed, maybe go the coffee shop around the corner or the park a couple of blocks away. Bad days where Pete has to fight to keep Patrick at home because _Jesus Christ_ , he can barely walk, let alone go unload his genius on a bunch of whiny children.

Some days Patrick will drag Pete back to bed with him and wrap himself around Pete, head lying on his shoulder and warm breath puffing softly against his collarbone. He never says anything, but for Pete, this is closest Patrick gets to emotional, the closest he’ll ever come to saying _I’m not okay_. These days are the worst because something seizes in Pete, desperate for more time, but there’s nothing he can do except hold Patrick back.

Pete becomes accustomed to calling the church and having to cancel when Patrick just doesn’t have the energy or has a fever of 102 or is too busy puking out his guts to pick up a guitar. They tell him _it’s fine, tell Patrick to feel better_ and _you’re in our prayers_ and Pete has to force himself not to throw his phone across the room or shout in indignation because none of it even means anything.

Patrick’s never going to _feel better_ and no amount of prayers change the fact that’s he’s _dying_ , slowly wilting away, right in front of Pete’s eyes. He comes to resent the sympathy just as much as the disease.

One morning Patrick wakes up drowsy, but not drained in the way he often is, and tells Pete he wants to go play, it’s a Wednesday and they’ll be expecting him anyway. They argue about it until Patrick throws a picture frame across the room, and snaps, “I’m going, Pete. Now you can either come with or stay the fuck here, I don’t care. But I’m going.”

Pete doesn’t respond, but goes and grabs his coat. Patrick’s smiling softly when he returns, and maybe it doesn’t feel quite so much like defeat after that.

In spite of Patrick’s protests, Pete insists on carrying the guitar. Patrick shoves him playfully, a sarcastic remark about chivalry and _wow, such a gentleman, Pete_ accompanying his actions, but he also takes Pete’s hand as they walk to church, holding it the entire way. 

They show up five minutes late, but everyone’s more than happy to see them. Kids run up to Patrick, concerned looks on their faces, knowing something’s off, but not quite able to comprehend what’s wrong.

Still, they all sit quietly on the matt, faces eager and smiles present as Patrick pulls out his guitar.

Pete and Patrick sit right next to each other, awkwardly trying to share the instrument and laughing every time Patrick accidentally hits him with the neck of the guitar. Patrick’s voice shakes from exertion as he sings, but he’s dedicated and vibrant as he puts on a show for the kids, and Pete thinks maybe he’s never sounded better.

During Patrick’s last song, Pete leans over and whispers, “I think I’m in love. Care to come home with me tonight?”

Patrick laughs and misses the next verse as he murmurs back, “We live in _my_ apartment, asshole. You’ll be coming home with _me_.”

And then Pete’s laughing too, head thrown back and without reserve, and he feels something like peace for the first time in weeks. He considers Patrick, whose smile is dazzling despite tired eyes and shaky hands, and tries not to dwell on how final it all feels.

* * *

 Just a few nights later, Pete wakes up to Patrick freaking out, _I can’t see I can’t see_ , words slurred with his panic, hands clutched to his head. Pete’s unsure what to do, caught between attempting to pacify Patrick and blindly reaching behind himself, trying to locate his phone. Patrick makes a pained noise, and Pete’s blood freezes at Patrick goes limp in his arms, unresponsive and unexpectedly cold.

Pete panics, and scrambles to find his phone in the dark, where the _fuck_ did he put it before bed, it should be _right here_ on the nightstand. Finally, _finally_ , he finds it fallen in the space between the bed and the nightstand and he rushes to dial 911, hands shaking and almost missing the buttons.

The lady who answers is nice, _calm_ , and Pete is literally on the verge of a meltdown as he gasps out, “My boyfriend—he, I don’t know, just passed out. He was complaining about not being able to see; I think maybe his head hurt? He won’t, he’s not—He was _fine_ earlier. I just—”

“Sir, _sir_ ,” the dispatcher interrupts, “I need you to calm down. First, I need your address.”

He rattles it off to her, stuttering and barely comprehensible, before continuing, “What—I don’t know what to do. He’s not.”

“Okay, sir,” she says, still calm, still so _fucking_ calm, “I need you to tell my any symptoms you noticed, anything that might help the paramedics when they arrive.”

“He’s already sick,” Pete blurts, “Leukemia. I don’t know if that—I’m not sure… He was,” Pete pauses, gasping breaths, “He was slurring, not really talking clearly? I’m not sure, I don’t think there was anything else.”

She tells him five minutes, and offers to stay on the phone with him.

Pete hangs up and dials Andy.

He picks up after two rings and that’s when Pete really begins to lose control, unable to manage his breathing and not completely sure what exactly he’s spewing out to his friend across the line. Thankfully, he somehow manages to get a least part of the situation through in his incoherency, and he’s cut off by Andy, who just says, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Pete’s wheezing breaths, feeling lightheaded and hyperaware all at once, “Andy,” he pleads, “I don’t know what I’m gonna to do.  He has to be okay. He has to. It’s only been a month. I haven’t _… it’s only been a month._ ”

“Pete, Pete, _Pete_ ,” Andy says, low and commanding, “You need to _calm down_. Think about anything you might need to bring to the hospital, get it all together before the paramedics arrive, and then ask if you can ride in the ambulance.”

Pete looks around the room, thinking about what he needs, and it’s a dumb question, so dumb, because all he needs is Patrick.

 _Patrick_ , who is unconscious on the bed and just two feet away, but Pete’s never felt further.

Seconds or hours later and the paramedics are through the door, gently yet firmly pushing Pete to the side, then carefully lifting Patrick off the bed and onto a stretcher.

One comes up to Pete, asking questions, and he answers as best he can, unaware of whatever words happen to be coming out of his mouth.  Apparently, it’s good enough because the EMT finishes with, “Okay, you riding with us?”

Pete nods frantically, following the paramedics out the door, eyes avoiding the stretcher, unable to bear the sight of Patrick, motionless and strapped down.

The paramedics usher him into the ambulance, and he sits and stares at the wall opposite of him. He doesn’t remember anything from the ride to the hospital.

* * *

 Once there, doctors are already waiting for their arrival, quickly taking Patrick and rushing him into critical care. Pete is led into a waiting room, where he promptly collapses into a chair, unable to stand.

Pete takes his head in his hands, just trying to _breathe_ , when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and finds Andy, face calm, but Pete can tell he’s more anxious than he’s letting on.

Andy hands him a cup of coffee, a cheap Styrofoam container that suggest he got it from the hospital cafeteria, and says, “These things usually take a while. And it’s not like you’d be getting any sleep any time soon anyway.”

Pete snatches the cup, eternally grateful, even if it’s just something to occupy his hands. He watches as steam rises up from the dark liquid and confesses, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if he’s not okay. He—we were supposed to have more _time_ ,” Pete’s so anxious, he’s moved right past worried and into anger, “It’s been a month, Andy. A _fucking_ month.”

He sets down the coffee cup so he doesn’t throw it, sits on his hands so he doesn’t punch anything. Andy remains silent, knowing Pete needs to work himself up before having any hope of calming down.

“A month, a month, a month, a month, a month.” Pete repeats the words until they mean nothing, and then continues until he feels like nothing too.

There’s this emptiness inside of Pete, and the longer he waits the more he can feel it growing, consuming him until he feels like he might stop existing if he doesn’t _do something_. It’s an old feeling, but it’s amplified a thousand times over because, for Patrick, there’s nothing he _can do_.

Time passes, and Pete sinks into himself, staring at a coffee cup that has long since gone cold.

Eventually, minutes or hours later, a doctor comes out, looking somewhere between haggard and sympathetic. Apprehension (distant, muted) crawls up Pete’s spine as the doctor looks at him and Andy and asks, “Family of Patrick Stump?”

Despite being the only ones in the room, Pete nods anyway. He doesn’t remember moving, but he’s up in an instant, meeting the doctor halfway, “Yes, I’m—What can you tell us?”

“I’m Dr. Thompson, and I’m working as Mr. Stump’s primary physician,” he begins, “Mr. Stump is suffering from Leukostasis, an extremely high blast cell count,” he explains, “These blast cell are nonfunctioning white blood cells, and lead to clumping and hypoxia, low levels of oxygen in the blood. While we’ve stabilized his immediate condition, long-term treatment seems unlikely. I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Pete. I…uh, Pete.”

“I’m sorry, Pete,” he continues, “There’s just not much we can do.”

Whatever’s left of himself, Pete can feel it shutting down, that hollow feeling inside him overwhelming him to where he can barely choke out, “How long?”

“A few days, a week at the most,” he replies, the perfect face of sympathy. The doctor continues, as if he didn’t just end Pete’s entire world, “He’s still not awake, but you can go see him now, if you’d like.”

Pete’s nodding without thought, following the doctor down the hall and feeling absolutely nothing. Pete thinks about the doctor’s words, trying to understand. But…

_A week._

It crawls around his mind, and Pete feels like he’s staring down the impossible. Patrick wanted to see some weird-ass independent film that’s supposed to come out next month. He can’t… he can’t just have a week. He’s supposed to go see that movie.

They stop abruptly, and the doctor gestures inside a dark room labeled _122_.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” the doctor says, and then he’s alone. 

Pete braces himself, but is still unprepared for the scene that greets him. The oxygen tube. The I.V. Patrick’s always been pale, but dark circles stand out stark against his skin in a way that makes Pete feel nauseous.  He’s almost perfectly still, the only movement coming from the slight rise and fall of his chest. Patrick’s getting his ass kicked by his own body, and Pete can see it in every line of his face, the sickly pallor of his skin.

The numbness that had overtaken him vanishes, and Pete’s chest seizes to the point of pain. He staggers closer to Patrick, collapsing in the chair next to the bed. The reality of Patrick’s humanity washes over Pete. Patrick’s _dying_ , not as some bad metaphor, not someday in the future. Right here, right now in some goddamn hospital bed.

Something breaks inside Pete and he’s sobbing, clutching Patrick’s hand and not saying anything because there’s too much to say. Bitterly, Pete thinks, he’s already begged Patrick to stay, and he’s lying on a hospital bed anyway.

He shutters, sobs wracking his frame, and he lashes out, knocking a glass vase off the bedside table. He stares at the pieces shattered on the floor and doesn’t feel any less devastated.

Pete spends the night by Patrick’s bed, alternating between anguish and rage.

“We were supposed to have more time, Patrick,” he pleads, so fucking desperate, “I need you. You—I haven’t even said goodbye. You can’t— _Patrick_.”

"Fuck, Patrick, you don't get to do this to me, to _us_ ," Pete yells, and he's so fucking devastated, and Patrick's just lying there, too exhausted or drugged-out for consciousness. "Please, please, _please_. Please don't."

“Just,” he sobs, “just wake up. Just talk to me. Just _be okay_ , just for a little longer. I just need a little longer.”

The night passes, and Patrick sleeps.

* * *

 Pete doesn’t remember falling asleep. However, when he wakes up, it’s to a sore neck and Patrick staring down at him, a sad smile playing across his face. He scoots over, patting the empty bed next to him. Pete crawls in, avoiding all the tubes, wrapping himself around Patrick and burying his face in the other man’s neck.

Patrick doesn’t say anything, but he reaches up, rubbing a soothing hand on his back as Pete just breathes, forcing himself to stay calm when all he wants is break down again. When Patrick was first diagnosed, Pete told himself he had to be strong, that Patrick couldn’t see him upset because Pete wasn’t the one dying. If Patrick wasn’t going to cry, then neither was he.

But when Patrick finally speaks, all he says is, “It’s okay, Pete. Let it out,” and immediately, he’s sobbing, making a mess of Patrick’s hospital gown and not giving a shit. Patrick continues rubbing his back, repeating, “It’s okay, Pete. It’s okay.”

Except it’s fucking not.

He raised his head and wipes his eyes, determined to tell Patrick as much, only to find Patrick’s hastily trying to do the same. Pete grabs his wrist, pulling Patrick’s hand away and replacing it with his own. He rubs his thumbs down Patrick’s face, tracing the tracks left by tears and confesses, “I thought you weren’t gonna wake up. They said… A few days, maybe a week. I thought—I thought I was going to spend that time begging for you to wake up, just to give me a chance to say goodbye.”

“Pete…” Patrick trails off, before giving him a hopeless look. Pete understands; there isn’t anything to say to that, no way to make it any less awful than it is.

Pete returns his head to Patrick’s shoulder, and they sit in silence for a few moments. He feels Patrick’s intake of breath, deeper than the others, and recognizes it as a nervous habit of Patrick’s, something he does when he thinks he’s about to start an argument. 

Pete can’t see it, but he feels the way Patrick hesitates, before saying, “I thought… I thought something like this might happen.”

Pete stiffens, disbelieving. ‘What—”

“The day we went to play at the church, the last time,” Patrick cuts him off, voice flat, but his hand finds Pete’s, clutching tightly, “I just… _felt_ it. I knew it was my last chance. That’s why I wanted to go so bad; I thought it was the last time I’d get to play,” he lets out a puff of air, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, “I guess I was right.”

Pete’s frozen, trying to comprehend what Patrick’s just told him, when Andy walks in the room. He’s carrying two cups of coffee and what looks like a microwave breakfast bagel. He hands the bagel and one of the cups to Pete, while giving the other to Patrick. “I told them the coffee was for me and Pete, but I figured… all things considered, you deserve some caffeine.”

Patrick’s looking at Andy like he’s some kind of messiah, and Pete has no idea if it’s for sustaining Patrick’s coffee addiction or saving him from the fallout of what he’s just confessed to Pete, but he sounds genuinely grateful when he says, “Thanks so much. I needed this.”

Andy nods in response, before shifting subjects, “I called Joe… and your mom, Pete,” he continues on, not even responding to Pete’s indignation, “they’re both coming over later today. I’ve got to head to work, but I’ll be back later too, okay?”

Andy heads out soon after, giving them a small, sad smile before he goes.

Once alone, Pete resists mentioning what Patrick admitted to him earlier, not willing to start a fight, preferring just to curl himself around the other man, clutching just on the side of too tight.

* * *

 When Pete’s mom shows up, the first thing she does is hug Patrick, gushing over how happy she is to see him and asking if there’s anything she can get him. Patrick’s blushing slightly under the attention, shaking his head no at her offers, before returning the sentiments.

The next thing she does is usher Pete out the room, telling him that she and Patrick need to talk _alone_ , and that he can go hang in the hallway with Joe until they’re done. Pete resists the urge to argue, that Patrick’s _dying_ and Pete intends to spend every second with him, but something in her tone lets him known it’s not up for debate.

So, he goes in the hallway and hangs out with Joe.

When Joe sees him, the first thing he says is, “You look like shit.”

“You’re lucky I’m even fucking standing, asshole.”

Joe sighs in agreement, then says decidedly, “Come on, they’ll be a while. We’ll go to the cafeteria and get some food.”

Pete glances worriedly back at Patrick’s room, protesting, ‘What—What if something happens? I should be close.”

Joe gives him this depressing smile, and Pete’s been getting too many of those lately, before replying, “You’re right. I’ll go get you something. What do you want?”

Pete doesn’t want anything except to go back to Patrick, but he says, “Something vegetarian,” ignoring the look Joe gives him before he leaves to fill Pete’s request.

Once Joe’s gone, Pete leans against a wall, forgoing a chair and just sliding to the floor. He rests his head on his knees, wondering what the fuck his mom would have to say to Patrick that she wouldn’t want Pete to hear. He winces at the possibilities.

When Joe returns with food, some type of soy-burger that Pete hates immediately, he sits down next to Pete, nudging his shoulder and asking, “Lucking that you’re fucking standing, huh?”

Pete shrugs his shoulders, returning his head to his knees. They don’t say anything after that.

* * *

 When Pete’s allowed back in Patrick’s room, both Patrick and his mom are sporting matching blank expressions, but the redness around their eyes is enough to give them away. His mom leaves soon after that, hugging Pete fiercely and saying she’ll be back tomorrow.

Pete crawls in next to Patrick again, listening to his breathing and ignoring Joe and him as they talk quietly. At some point Patrick starts stroking his hair, carding his fingers through the mess, and it’s comforting, but it’s not enough. It’ll never fucking be enough.

* * *

 The next few days pass in a rotation of Joe, Andy, or Pete’s mom. Pete refuses to leave the hospital, staying by Patrick’s side every second he can.

He tries not to notice how each time Patrick wakes it’s for shorter and shorter periods of time, but it’s hard to ignore how weak Patrick’s become, unable to sit up or feed himself, getting all his nutrition through an I.V. bag that hangs by his bed.

The next time he wakes, late at night, Patrick stares as Pete, exhausted, and whispers, “I’m tired, Pete.”

Pete’s vision blurs, and he reaches up to stroke Patrick face, murmuring back, “I know, ‘Trick. I know. You can go back to sleep.”

Patrick blinks, slow and weighted, and continues, “I think… I think now might be a good time to say goodbye, Pete.”

“No, no, Patrick,” Pete’s disagreeing instantly, “Not yet. You can’t—not yet.”

“I love you. I love you so much, Pete,” Patrick persists, ignoring his protests, “You’re amazing, Pete. With your words, with kids. Don’t—don’t stop just ‘cause I can’t be there with you.”

“I don’t want to do it without you. I can’t,” Pete confesses, barely managing to choke the words out.  

Patrick’s smile is understanding, but it’s too close to pity, and the last person Pete wants fucking pity from is Patrick.

Eventually, Patrick just repeats, “I love you. So much.”

Patrick’s shoving a knife in his chest, and Pete feels like he’s helping him twist it. Still, he replies, “I love you, too.”

Patrick falls asleep soon after that. Pete doesn’t.

Hours later, Pete’s watching Patrick—trying to memorize the lines of his face, the rise and fall of his chest—when his heart monitor suddenly changes tone, dropping into a single monotonous beep. Pete’s frozen, mind blanking at the situation, as doctors rush into the room, not reacting until two nurses try and pull him out.

Pete starts shouting, struggling to break out of their grip, his arms flailing as he tries to break free, desperately needing to get back to Patrick.

 _Patrick_ , the only calm in a room of chaos, lying on the bed and completely unaware of the doctors rushing to save him. Of Pete’s frantic panic. Of the storm whirling around him. Just, _calm_.

They always say it’s best to go in your sleep. Quiet. Peaceful. They never consider who might be screaming around you.

* * *

 The funeral takes place outside. It’s sunny, bright, the type of day that Patrick, with his condition, wouldn’t have gotten to enjoy.  

Pete stands in front of a small crowd—people from the church, musicians Patrick knew, friends of theirs—and tries not to scream.

He’s caught between wanting to say nothing because these people didn’t appreciate Patrick, not like he _deserved_ , and wanting to yell, _vehement_ , that they lost something extraordinary. That they should want to be screaming too.

He opens his mouth, dry and weighted, and does neither.

“Patrick,” Pete begins, caught between useless clichés and raw misery, “is the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t—I can’t imagine being without him. He was my best friend,” Pete pauses, attempting to compose himself, “He… Patrick…There’s so much I could say, so many _amazing_ things about Patrick, but mostly. Mostly…

“He deserved better. Than me. Than his condition. Patrick deserved _better_ ,” Pete’s hands are clenched. He can’t look at the people in front of him. It hurts, the words _hurt_ , but Pete needs to say this, _needs_ for these people to understand. “I just wish he had gotten it.”

Pete finishes, sits down between his mom and Andy, spends the rest of the funeral with the heels of his hands shoved against his eyes.

When it’s over, after the burial, his mom hugs him tight, and he buries his head in her shoulder, breathing deep but wanting to choke; his lungs feel shattered, each inhale scraping glass.

They pull apart and his mom looks anguished, and Pete has to swallow the lump in his throat when he considers how much his mom adored Patrick, how much she must be hurting too.

She quirks her lips, something like a grimace, and says, “I have something for you. From Patrick. He… he wanted me to give it to you.”

Pete's stomach is lead, and he thinks back to Patrick and his mom, talking privately at the hospital, barely a week ago. Pete isn’t sure he can handle another reminder, especially one from Patrick himself, that he isn’t coming back. That he’s alone now.

Pete asks to see what it is.

* * *

 A black notebook, the type you can buy at a 99 cent store.

There’s nothing on the cover, but when he flips it open, he finds lyrics, _his lyrics_ , written in Patrick’s loopy scrawl.

_Are we growing up or just going down?_

_It’s just a matter of time before we’re all found out._

_Take your tears and put them on ice,_

_‘Cause I swear I’ll burn this city down to show you the light._

It’s the first song they ever wrote together, and Pete slams the notebook shut upon realization. He’s gasping for breath, eyes blurry and hands shaking.

Suspicion sits low in his gut, and Pete quickly flips the notebook open again, this time to a random page towards the back. He scans the page, jerking back because he’s staring at different words, a different song of theirs, written only a few months back.

He leafs through the book randomly, and it’s every song they ever wrote together, all the lyrics they ever shared. Pete’s holding a piece of himself, but it hurts too much without Patrick being there to hold it with him.

For a moment, he’s filled with blinding rage and Pete considers destroying the notebook. Tearing it up, burning it, just throwing it the fuck away. But the songs aren't just his, and he can't throw them away without throwing Patrick away too.  
  
Eventually, he locks the notebook in his nightstand, determined never to look at it again.

* * *

 Pete shuts himself in his—just _his_ now—room, lying on a bed that’s too big for just him, but too small for the memories it holds. Grief hits him in flashes, too painful to comprehend, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Mourning, for Pete, turns out to be a lot of sleeping. Spending most of his days unconscious, Pete thinks, horrified, he’s never been more rested.

Pete has moments of denial, when he’ll wonder when Patrick’s getting home, what they’ll do that night. Or when Andy visits with food, same time every day, trying to force Pete to eat so he doesn’t starve himself. It’s a nice sentiment, but Pete wishes he wouldn’t.

Every time Andy walks through the door, Pete expects it to be Patrick.

Pete doesn’t know how to handle the gaping hole that suddenly resides inside him. Every decision, _every thought,_ is spent edging around it, avoiding the reality that Pete just doesn’t have Patrick anymore, will never have him again.

He’s not always successful, the destroyed bass that Pete’s left in the corner of the living room a testament to that. But Pete doesn’t care; he can’t remember the cords to anything, mind frozen when he so much as thinks of playing, and without Patrick, he doesn’t even want to anyway.

Pete floats, somewhere between vacant and devastated, unwilling to accept reality but unable to deny how empty the apartment now feels.

* * *

 Time passes.

Pete goes back to work.

He meets with his attorney. Patrick left all his assets to Pete, and he has no idea when Patrick found the time to draw up a fucking will.

Andy comes by less and less.

The notebook stays in his nightstand.

Things go back to _normal_.

Pete doesn’t.

* * *

 Several months after the funeral, Pete gets a call from the church. It's the first time in weeks, and he's regretfully but politely informed that they found a new music instructor. _Patrick will be missed._

  
The words feel like a physical blow, and without thought, Pete throws the phone across the room, watches as it shatters against the wall and feels something break inside himself with it.  
  
_Don't stop just ‘cause I can't be there with you._  
  
Pete laughs, full bodied and bitter. They don't fucking want him anyway.  
  
For a moment, Pete feels like screaming, feels it stronger than anything since losing Patrick, but his lungs have been ripped out, taken from him just like Patrick. He's walking around without a part of himself, something _gone_ , and he has no idea how to function when he’s this broken.  
  
He hasn't let himself cry, not in months, but as Pete staggers to the bedroom, tears stream down his face, messy and unhindered.  
  
He rips open the nightstand drawer, intent on destroying the goddamn notebook because Patrick is fucking dead and fucking shitty lyrics aren't going to change that.  
  
Instead, he finds himself curled up on the floor, shaking with sobs, just staring at the blank cover in front of him.  
  
Tentatively, he opens up the notebook, tracing the letters as he mouths the words, feels them on him lips the same way as when he first wrote them. It wasn’t something Pete had ever bothered to keep track of. The lyrics never meant as much as Patrick being willing to sing them.

He flips through each page, carefully examining each word, remembering every stupid fight about placement or progression they caused.

Pete reads the entire notebook, knows when he reaches end, knows there’s nothing beyond the half-finished mess he and Patrick had been working on before things had started getting really bad and Patrick no longer had the energy for song writing.

Except... Except when he flips the page, there's a sticky note placed over another song, a short note written in the same familiar scrawl.

_Pete,_

_I'll never be one for words, but for you, I'll always try. I'm so sorry. I love you._

He rips off the note, and under it are lyrics he's never seen and words he’s never thought. They're Patrick's, completely, and he wrote them for _Pete_.

_I’m good to go, and I’m going nowhere fast._

_It could be worse. I could be taking you there with me._

Pete’s eyes blur and he wipes them furiously. Staring down at the lyrics, he misses Patrick so fiercely he feels dizzy with it.

He reads it over and over again, before flipping the page. He rummages around in his nightstand and feels his chest constrict when his hand curls around some cheap ballpoint. Pete considers the blank page before him, hesitating. He doesn’t know how to write anymore without it hurting, without tearing himself apart. But Pete’s always chosen Patrick over himself.

Pete falls asleep that night curled up on the floor, notebook clutched to his chest.

* * *

 Pete wakes up early the next morning. He takes a long shower, letting himself focus on the water as it falls on his shoulders and back. He spends thirty minutes trying to get dressed, caught between wanting to look his best and wanting to be vindictive. Dead bodies don't care what you're wearing. (He ends up in one of Patrick’s old shirts.)

Before leaving, he grabs the notebook and Patrick's acoustic, tries to ignore the way the latter has collected dust, sitting untouched in the corner for the last few months.  
  
Then he goes to Patrick's grave.

He sits in the car for fifteen minutes before he can work up the courage to even open the door. This is final, something like acceptance, and Pete isn't ready to move on from his denial.

When he does leave the car, it's with shaky hands and reluctant legs. He moves through the cemetery slowly, a numbness creeping over him as he stares at the rows of graves of in front of him.  

All people, all with families. Stories. Someone they left behind. (Pete begins to move more quickly.)

A couple months old, but Patrick's tombstone still appears the newest, shiny where others have faded, standing out like Patrick never got the chance to.

Pete sits down, resting the flowers before the grave and opening the notebook in front of him. He smiles, watery and devastated. He hadn't thought about, hadn't given himself the chance to, but Pete already knows everything he needs to say. Everything Patrick needs to hear.

"I was. I mean. You know how much of a wreck I was when I first met you," Pete stumbles, choking on his words, unsure how to say anything without Patrick with him to make it mean something, "I didn't care. I wasn't happy. I didn't even want to be.

"But then... When I met you... God, I loved you. I'll always love you." Pete confesses, words feeling harsh and jagged until they're a sob. "I…There's not much I can say that you don't already know. But, just, people keep telling me it gets better. I don't care if it gets better, 'Trick. You'll always be my best."  
  
Pete traces Patrick's name on the tombstone as he talks, only dropping his hand once he's finished. Taking a shaky breath, Pete picks up Patrick's old acoustic, and, despite the lack of wrinkles, smoothes out the pages in front of him. The lyrics aren't his, but he's memorized them like his own, feels them crawling through his mind the same way his own do.  
  
One more breath, and he's staring at the tombstone again.  
  
"This is gonna suck, just to let you know," Pete says.  
  
He takes a deep breath, strums the guitar, and then _sings_.  
  
Pete knows he's not doing the song justice, not doing Patrick justice, but he finishes anyway, going through the song again and again until his voice is as raw as the rest of him.

He sings until he's screaming, until the words have lost meaning and he's no longer strumming cords, just abusing the guitar to the same tune as his misery.

He sings until it _hurts_ , hurts worse than anything he's felt before, and then he sings until it doesn't. Until the glass in his throat smoothes, still sharp but not as jagged. He gives Patrick back his own words just as he used to do for Pete.

Afterwards, he smoothes the sheet once more, before flipping it to the next page. Written off the lines and in Pete's messy scrawl is half formed poetry, lyrics that don't work but could given the right voice. It's not a song, but it's all Pete has to give back.

He tears the sheet out, sets it by the flowers. He flips the notebook close, and stands. Takes a moment to place his hand on the tombstone, exhales and ignores how hard it feels to breathe. Then he walks away.

Pete’s never been strong, and he’s only halfway out the cemetery before he’s looking back. Like always, Pete feels the urge to destroy, desecrate the graves around him, smash them until all that’s left is him and Patrick.

Pete turns back around. He goes to his car, and drives away.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://pavlust.tumblr.com/)  
> thanks for reading, kudos, comments


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